


House of Wolves

by lucdarling



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Assassins, Gen, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many different ways an IMF team ends up bonding. This one isn't for the history books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Innocence for Days

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [cinaea](archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea) who whipped this into shape.  
> Written for [this prompt](http://ghotocol-kink.livejournal.com/1494.html?thread=567510#t567510)

Sabine Moreau is the first. Jane has delivered hits in the name of duty and country but the French bitch was personal. And it felt good. She feels guilty about not feeling guilty, until Brandt sits down next to her on a bench in Chicago's Millennium Park months later. The team's on leave and supposedly scattered across the globe, but Jane knows they all keep tabs on one another regardless of protocol.

“You know, the French have always been a little uptight for my taste.” Jane looks at him from the corner of her eye as he continues: “But you did the world a favor in Dubai.” She remembered his look as he burst through the hotel door, the way Brandt's blue eyes had darkened as Sabine fell to her death. At the time, Jane thought it was horror because the analyst was unprepared. Now, the woman thinks it might have been hunger, maybe even jealousy.

“What did you have in mind?” Jane questions, voice hushed in the bright sunlight. Tourists laugh loudly around them and Jane braces herself for the answer.

“I have a list of names, if you're interested.” He replies and Jane feels her heart begin to beat quicker. Brandt's eyes are dark again, searching her with some unasked question. Jane nods and he smiles.

Her body count rises slowly and Brandt marks names off his list.  


\+ + +

“You're good at that,” Brandt remarks softly as Ethan pulls his knife from a guard's limp body. It's been a month since he approached Jane and she's doing better than he'd expected.

“I've had lots of practice,” Ethan whispers back and Brandt smiles darkly. “So, is this where you ask me to join you and Jane in your little side ventures around the globe?” The smile drops and Ethan sidles closer. “Did I ruin your plans for a little speech, maybe an offer of something more?”

The analyst swallows and Ethan's eyes are boring into his. “You know I'd say yes if you asked. It wouldn't be that different from what we do now.”

“We're still saving the world,” Brandt suggests and Ethan nods. “So you want to spend your free time saving the world from its darkest stains?” Ethan's answering smile is wide and slightly wolfish.

Brandt's list expands to people he couldn't consider before, because with three people the possibilities are near endless. It's a beautiful relationship.  


\+ + +

They keep Benji in the dark as long as possible. Out of affection, misguided sense of protection for the tech-cum-field-agent, call it what you want. The three are quiet about their late night runs, the side missions their superiors can never know about. Benji stays in his DC apartment, surrounded by his tech or in the hotel, fast asleep in the bed.

It turns out not to matter. Ethan falls on the mattress at the safe house, arms spread wide as Jane swallows ill-timed giggles. She's got one foot propped on the closed lid of the toilet and is slowly stripping weapons from her body. William is leaning back in his chair, recounting Ethan's look of disgust when the smell of piss reached his nostrils when Benji bursts into the room, laptop tucked under one arm.

“Have I taught you nothing about staying off camera? You're lucky I was watching,” He takes a seat on the extra bed. “Otherwise you three would still be stuck in that building, surrounded by Germany’s finest!” Ethan looks up sharply and Jane's hands still on the knife sheath that's partially unbuckled around her thigh. The front legs of Will's chair hit the hardwood floor with a thump. Benji types away at his computer, swearing half at the screen and half at them. “I understand you didn't want to bring me, that's fine, I got over that disappointment a while ago – fuck you are an absolute idiot Ethan, do not wave at the camera – but you need to remember that one day I will not be behind you erasing security tapes for you!” He slams his hands on the keyboard and raises his head.

“How long have you known about our moonlighting?” Ethan asks in a low voice. Will leans forward.

“I've always known they happened off the books, I just didn't realize it was our team until Mr. Hotshot here,” Benji jerked a thumb at Ethan, “decided to return to the room covered in blood spatter.” Ethan looks gobsmacked and the tech grins widely.

They triple their body count in the next four months alone.


	2. You Haven't Got A Prayer

Georges Rush is captured in the evening. The weather is cool in Brussels and neither the tourists nor Georges himself are any the wiser when Jane comes up beside him and herds him to an alley under the pretense of being a tourist. Ethan covers his mouth with one arm and pricks him with a needle. The man goes limp in the next minute and Ethan and Jane haul him into the paneled bakery truck.

He comes to with a stinging pain in his cheek. “Time to wake up, Mr. Rush.” The man’s voice is American and friendly enough. Georges opens his eyes warily nonetheless. “We’ve got a lot to discuss about your shell corporation and its operations before my colleagues get to have their fun.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Georges spits out defensively. The man sighs and wags a finger under his nose.

“They always try to hide.” The man with the blue eyes looks over Georges’s head with a pleasant expression. "You'd think they'd understand that lying is useless by now, right, Benji?"

The voice that answers from the shadows is British and deeply amused. “Yeah, but you know the bad guys never get the memos that their comrades are dropping like flies. They think if they hire better security they’ll be safe. Or maybe that what they’ve done isn’t quite as bad as someone else.”

“Security didn’t help Yamada Takao,” Blue Eyes answers with a smile and Georges suddenly knows who he’s dealing with. There have been whispers about a rogue black ops team cleaning up the underworld. “And building shell corporations to hide your drug trafficking, the same drugs that are now killing people because you can’t be bothered to cut them properly, that’s pretty bad.”

“So I’m going to die, is that it? I should have died many times over by now,” Georges responds to his crimes with false bravado.

“Yes, you should have.” A small man steps into the room, radiating power despite his stature.

“We’re grateful you didn’t.” A woman he hadn’t noticed whispers in his ear, dragging the tip of a knife down Georges’s arm. The jacket and silk shirt underneath peel away from the blade like melted butter but there’s no mark left on his tan skin.

“You know, I think we actually saved his life,” Blue Eyes looks off into the distance and the other two wait patiently. “Yes, three years ago during his business trip to Mexico City. We,” the man grimaces at the inclusion of himself, “decided that Mr. Rush wasn’t going to be much trouble.” The small man with brown eyes steps closer and puts a hand on his arm.

“That’s why we’re handling it now, Will.” Georges opens his mouth to comment on the brief kiss the two men share but the woman blocks his line of sight.

“Are you particularly attached to your fingers? I was thinking about starting with them,” she taps his wedding band with the flat of the knife. “But cutting out your tongue is such a promising beginning. Makes the noises so guttural.”

“Fingers first. I like it when we can understand their begging.” The unnamed man contributes and the woman grins. Her knife flashes and Georges screams noisily.

“You know,” Will muses as the woman starts cutting through Georges’s clothes with minimum scratches on his skin like she’s making a point to be gentle now that his pinky finger is on the floor, “to be fair, we could give him a dose of his own drug. Let him see what he gives to others.” He trails the pad of a blunt finger over the pinpricks in the crook of Georges’ elbow. The man shudders at the idea.

“With our luck,” the British voice speaks again, “he’d have an allergic reaction or somethin’. Then where would we be with our playtime cut short?”

“We’d move on to the celebrating part of the evening,” the woman murmurs. Her knife prods gently at Georges’s stomach. “But we’ll get there sooner or later, we always do. You always die in the end.”

Her knife is a glittering arc in the dim light of the room and Georges’s scream is louder this time.

It’s only the beginning and the night is still young. Georges Rush, international drug dealer long suspected of being behind the current epidemic of street deaths, dies with blood on his lips and a scream in his throat.

The four return to their IMF safe house, and Brandt quickly writes the report stating that the team had spent the night on uneventful reconnaissance. Then they celebrate another mission accomplished.


End file.
